


among mortal men

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Community: rs_games, Family, Hopeful Ending, Life to Death, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Linear Narrative, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: R/S Games 2017 - Day 5 - Team Sirius.Now, then, and always.





	among mortal men

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the tenth and final [R/S Games](https://rs-games.dreamwidth.org/profile). Special thanks to [finalizer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer) for the beta and [cutepoison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutepoison) for the cheerleading ♥️
> 
>  **Notes:** The MCD takes up a couple hundred words total, and starts and ends the fic. I suppose you could skip the scenes if you want to, though they are what tie the whole thing together, and as one comment summarised, it is “more sweet than bitter.”
> 
>  **Additional Warnings:** Canon-typical themes, some implicit mental health issues, implications of violence, and references to minor character death.
> 
> I was on Team Sirius, and my prompt was the quote below. Enjoy!

_We are not the same persons this year as last,_  
_nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we,_  
_changing, continue to love a changed person._

W. Somerset Maugham.

*******

**c. 1996.**

Laughter. Familiar and frightening.

It had held comfort, once, many years ago, but there’s no comfort now. Quite the opposite, if he’s honest.

It sets his blood alight, makes his veins tingle with an odd sensation. A desperate sensation. The laugher is loud, is deranged, is _mad_. It reverberates through his chest, a reminder of everything he should fear.

But doesn’t.

Bellatrix is laughing. More like screaming, really, but then—there’s not much of a difference. At least, not with her.

Sirius follows the sound. He shouldn’t. Obviously. He knows he shouldn’t—too dangerous, everyone would say. Too risky. But that’s expected, isn’t it? And if not him, then who? Not Harry, he thinks, he can’t let her get to Harry.

Or Remus.

Merlin knows what happened the last time.

A jet of red light is sent his way—pale red, like a stunning spell, Sirius thinks. Not her best. He ducks just in time, lets his voice join hers. Taunting, teasing, tittering. Just like they’d always been, all those years ago.

It’s easy, he thinks, far too easy, to get lost in the familiar. To forget the frightening. To fixate on what’s in front of you.

The battle dwindles, but neither notice. Or perhaps they just don’t care. Too focused on the other, too focused on the outcome of their own personal battle, on its meaning—greater than anyone in the room realises it to be.

Bellatrix is laughing, and even as he falls through the veil, so is he.

Like this, he doesn’t hear Bellatrix’s triumphant scream. He doesn’t hear Harry’s desperate call of his name, he doesn’t see Remus grab him, doesn’t see him hold Harry back, doesn’t see the look on his face; the shock that’s embedded in every tired line, the devastation, the anguish. Doesn’t see the way he swallows, desperate, almost, to keep the sorrow at bay.

Like this, there is only laughter, and then there is nothing.

 

 

**c. 1959.**

The child is born in early November.

It’s late—well into the evening. The sky outside has grown dark, a blue that is almost black stretching across the horizon every which way. Stars sparkle like diamonds, like crystals, their little white glow scattered as far as Orion can see, and when the Healer asks for a name, he tells her Sirius.

He tells her Sirius because it is an old family name, because it is a tradition, because he feels that he has to. He does not name the child Sirius because he knows, because he is aware of what the child will grow to be. He does not name the child Sirius because it is a fitting name, because one day he will shine so brightly that he will burn, because one day he will explode with an awe-inspiring ferocity, that one day he will put every star in the sky to shame.

They name him Sirius because it is a tradition. They do not realise that he is the contradiction.

 

 

**c. 1977.**

_“Sirius.”_

_“Mm?”_

_“No.” Remus hand touches his, pulls his attention to where he’s pointing, arm outstretched to the sky. “There. Look.”_

_“Wha—oh.” He smiles, a small curl of his lip. The grin he reserves for Remus, for these little moments of calm they share. “Pretty, innit?”_

_“Stop fishing for compliments.”_

_He laughs now, the sound loud in the otherwise empty tower, and turns from the sparkling sky to stare at Remus’ face. He looks tired, Sirius notes. More tired than usual. They probably shouldn’t be out—the full moon has just past, and Remus has barely been permitted to leave the Hospital Wing—but they’d needed it. Or, at least, had wanted it._

_“You don’t think I’m pretty?”_

_He sees Remus smile, sees the laughter bubble in his chest, sees the sparkle in his eye. He is beautiful, Sirius thinks, more so than the night sky and all its wonder._

_“Prettier than the moon.”_

_“You hate the moon.”_

_“Yes,” Remus says, head turning against the makeshift cushion to stare at him. His smile widens now, like he’s talking in inside jokes only he understands, and Sirius can do little else but laugh and shift closer, his hand linking with Remus’ as they trace out toward Lepus and up toward Orion._

 

 

**c. 1971.**

Nerves. Sirius doesn’t feel them, except for when he does.

Except for when he’s eleven years old, and he’s just arrived at Hogwarts. Except for when he’s the first person to be called forward. Except for when everyone is staring, is waiting, is expecting.

Except for when the Sorting Hat puts him in Gryffindor.

It yells the word—too loud, too tumultuous—and Sirius doesn’t know how to feel. Doesn’t know what to do. The bloody thing had barely been on his head for a minute, had barely considered the options before Sirius had heard a voice in his ear, deep and certain as it’d murmured an _oh, yes, I know just what to do with you._

He’s not one to be scared often, either, only now the Hall has gone deathly silent. Only now shock is written on the faces of those who understand, and confusion on the faces of those who don’t. Only now he catches sight of Andromeda, who looks so much like Bellatrix, and he knows. He _knows._

The surprise—it’s palpable. Sirius can see it, so clearly. Can see how easily surprise can turn to confusion, to outrage, to betrayal.

He’s not scared often, but he thinks he might be right now.

The applause is delayed, but it comes; half-hearted and hesitant, but there. Professor McGonagall places a hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle as she urges him onward, and so he goes. He steps off the stool, on toward the sea of red and gold, and he knows a letter will arrive in the days to come. Knows Mother and Father are going to be anything but pleased. 

Still, he sits where he’s been placed. The other students watch, a few offering a quick welcome, but their kind words aren’t genuine. Sirius can tell, can see it in their eyes, shining right alongside the knowledge of his family’s reputation. And yet, he accepts their congratulations. It’s easier on everyone, he thinks, if he just smiles—tight lipped, the one he uses at family gatherings—and diverts his focus back to the sorting.

Evans, Lily is the first to join him, and Sirius pays her no attention as she stares back at the black-haired boy from the train, something like sympathy on her face. The next boy to make it is Lupin, Remus and he’s all shy smiles and hesitant hellos, and it reminds Sirius of Regulus, in an odd sort of way, but he seems to relax eventually, and they both watch as Pettigrew, Peter sits on the stool for five minutes, and they both cheer when Potter, James gets sent their way as well.

It’s easy, after that. Like they’ve known each other for years. They don’t care if he’s just disappointed his family. Don’t care if he’s just broken tradition, or that people are still staring. They’re happy to accept him, and—it’s freeing, Sirius thinks. Refreshing. Nothing at all like what he’s used to.

He finds he quite likes it.

 

 

**c. 1976.**

_“Do you—I mean—do—”_

_His stomach is in knots. It shouldn’t be this hard, he thinks. It’s never been this bloody hard before._

_And yet._

_“Hogsmeade. With me?”_

_“Wasn’t that the plan?”_

_“No, I. With me. You know—a date.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Oh, thinks Sirius. Yeah, oh. Oh seems about right._

_“Alright, then.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_He smiles now, big and bright, and both of their faces have turned pink, and if anyone asks they’ll both blame it on the wind, on the winter, but they will both know the truth; will both feel the same burst of emotion, the same sensation—closer to pride than embarrassment, to love than diffidence._

_“Alright,” repeats Sirius._

 

 

**c. 1972.**

Family, blood—everyone acts as if it means everything. As if it’s what every thought, every action should revolve around. As if it’s the single most important part of everyone’s lives.

It’s not. Sirius learns this in the summer of 1972.

It’s a Wednesday. His skin shines with sweat, the soft fabric of his shirt clinging to his body. There is mud on his sleeve and dirt under his nails, his palms dusted a light brown. He’s been out in the garden—not because he’d actually wanted to be, but because there’s a fancy dinner tonight and he doesn’t plan on washing up. Because it is a quiet rebellion, to stand there, dressed in the formal robes his mother will make him wear, with dirt under his nails. Because he knows she will say nothing while others watch, while they can listen. Because the only thing worth keeping up is appearances, and because dirt under his nails is an act of liberation, however small it may be.

But now, right now, he stands in front of the family tapestry. He stands in front of the family tapestry, and he stares at the spot everyone else stares at. At the name that is burnt black.

Uncle Cygnus has just wiped Andromeda off of the wall— _out of the family_ —and everyone has just watched him do it. No one speaks, but the silence is deafening. Sirius meets Regulus’ gaze for a split second, sees the way his little brother swallows; fear, maybe, he thinks. Or perhaps sadness. Narcissa is next to him, shock still, almost, her cool blue eyes fixed on her father, and Bellatrix’s hand is on her shoulder, her hand curled around the delicate bone, her fingers clenched in the fabric of her summer robe. Painful, probably, but then, Narcissa would never say.

It is here that Sirius learns the falsity of his parents’ philosophy. Here where he realises that blood, that family, it is little more than what you choose to make of it. Here where he knows, with certainty, that it is _okay_ to be the way he is.

Andromeda, she’s the only one who ever made much sense, Sirius thinks. The only one he’d thought he would really miss. And if she can leave—if she can choose happiness over conformity, if she can choose love over tradition—then. Well.

So can he.

 _So much for rebellion_ , Sirius thinks. 

Andromeda seems to have taken the cake. 

 

 

**c. 1976.**

_Certainty. Certainty. Sirius is all about certainty._

_He will make up his mind in a split second—instantaneous, no room for alternatives, no room for second guesses—will settle on something with such confidence that getting him to change his opinion is nothing short of a miracle._

_It is equal parts endearing and infuriating._

_Certainty. It’s what he feels now._

_It’s early. The dorm it lit with the glow of the sunrise, the orange hues fitting seamlessly with the red and gold décor. Sirius can still hear Peter’s snores, can still hear James’ heavy breathing—so familiar now it feels like home. His curtains are cracked open, and through them, bleary-eyed and yawning, he catches sight of Remus—Remus, who is still asleep, whose hair is sticking up in every direction, whose face is calm and gentle and so, so beautiful in the morning light, whose body is half covered in blankets, whose skin is still scattered with cuts, with bruises, with reminders of awe-inspiring agony, and all Sirius can think is: him._  

_Yes._

_Him._

 

 

**c. 1981.**

It’s with a deranged disbelief that everything clicks into place, that he looks at Peter and finally understands.

It is all so simple, Sirius thinks. So simple, so perfect, and yet, so _important._ He fooled them all. All four of them. Ruined them. Sat back and watched them ruin themselves. 

He looks at Peter, watches him commit his final act. There is nothing he can do now, not when the Aurors are arriving, not when there’s already a crater in the street, not when bodies are everywhere, unmoving, unblinking, their blood and brains and bones covering the alleyway. Not when there are people screaming, not when Peter is transforming, not when all that’s left is shredded, bloody robes and the tip of a finger.

Not when the only thing he can think is _don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._

And he doesn’t. He laughs. He laughs like he’s supposed to, laughs like his namesake, laughs like a _Black—_ loud and insane and _frightening_ —and it _doesn’t matter_ , Sirius thinks. None of it matters. Not the hands clutching his shoulders, not the Aurors holding him back, not the fingers twisted in his shirt, the pressure so strong it almost burns.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , Sirius thinks again, like a mantra in his head. Like desperation. Like he’s trying to convince himself.

His laugh doesn’t die down as the Aurors clear the street, as Sirius is forced to follow, as he realises that they think he did it, that they are _certain_ he did it. He can see it, in their eyes. The hatred, the revulsion, the disbelief.

He imagines the look is mirrored in his own.

 

 

**c. 1995.**

The wall is rough beneath his fingertips, the the texture coarse and scratchy. It would almost hurt, Sirius thinks, if he pressed down too hard. He wonders what it would’ve felt like, back then, when it was freshly charred. Wonders if it would have burnt his skin.

He’ll never know.

It’s his first time seeing it, seeing his name burnt black, seeing the remnants of a final act to a ferocious performance. He hadn’t been there to watch it happen—had already been halfway to James’ house by the time his mother had figured out what he’d done.

Still, he wonders what it was like, wonders how it went down, wonders if his mother made everyone watch.

Probably, he thinks. Regulus, at least. As a lesson.

She always had been fond of her _lessons_.

At the time, when he’d learnt of it, he’d been relieved. Happy, even. He’d laughed about it, and James and Remus and Peter had laughed with him. Mostly, at least. Sirius still remembers the concern that had lingered behind James’ eyes at first, the worry that had lined Remus’ face. But it had vanished, eventually. The way most things seemed to.

Now, though—now, next to that relief, next to that pride, there is an itch at the back of his throat, a stinging sensation behind his eyes, an inexplicable ache inside of him.

It’s stupid, he thinks. There is no reason to be upset, he thinks. You got over this already, he thinks. _It is hardly the worst thing that has happened to you._

And yet the ache remains, and yet the memories still cloud his mind, and yet he is still in Grimmauld Place, is still forced to relive it, is still forced to _remember._

And yet he can still feel the repressed sob sitting at the back of his throat, pressing at the back of his teeth, begging to be let out, to be set _free._

“Sirius.”

He starts at the sound of his name, and when his eyes meet Molly’s, they’re still clouded. Still lost in the past.

“The meeting’s starting,” she tells him, and Sirius nods—once, the movement a stiff twitch of his head.

As she turns to leave, he swallows—swallows as if to bury his emotions, as if to rid himself of the feelings that clog his throat—and then he follows her out.

He will not cry, he thinks. Not over this. 

 

 

**c. 1980.**

_“They still don’t know who it was,” Remus is saying, his gaze fixed on the waterfront. The deep blue glitters under the sun, the light reflecting in every ripple of water, in every wave that crashes gently on the shore. It’s beautiful, the way it moves. Calming. “The other one.”_

_“‘Course they don’t.” Sirius doesn’t watch the water, he watches Remus. Watches the way his cheek moves when he talks, the way the new wound stretches across flesh—Bellatrix, again. Sirius is sure she only targets Remus because of him. “Bastard wore a mask.”_

_“Mm.” He leans forward, rests his elbow on the concrete block and leans over, looks down, gets a better glance of the water. His hair blows in the wind, away from his eyes. “Lily said it looked like Sna—”_

_“Don’t.” His voice is harsher than he intends it to be, but he is too tired to care. Too exhausted, too mentally drained. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, doesn’t want for every second they spend together to be full of this—of worry, of concern, of dread. “I. We don’t—Something else. Please.”_

_Remus turns his head to look at him, and Sirius can see the cognisance that rests there, can see the way compassion lights honey-brown eyes. He finds himself endlessly thankful for Remus’ innate ability to understand him, for the way he makes things easy._

_A hand takes hold of his, and Sirius pulls him forward, pulls their bodies flush together. He can feel Remus rest his chin on his shoulder, can feel his breath against his ear—warm and welcome and wonderful._

_“We should bake tonight,” says Remus. “Lily’s recipe—choc chip. They were nice, last time.”_

_“You set the curtains on fire.”_

_They both smile at the memory, both allow themselves to relax for a moment, to let their lives take on a semblance of normality. To let the weight of the war fall off their shoulders—to not worry about what mission they’ll be appointed next, or what friend will die next. To not think about the white-hot panic, the sheer perturbation of seeing the other on the losing side of a duel, of seeing the other covered in their own blood._

_“I’ve learnt from my mistakes.”_

_Sirius snorts softly, the sound fading in the wind, and he knows that everything will have to be dealt with later, that they won’t be able to forget for long, but here, now, this moment is theirs. And here, now, with the sun warm against their skin, with the wind blowing through their hair, with the steady beat of their hearts and the gentle crash of the sea, they belong to each other. And here, now, with the cool metal of his motorcycle against his hip, and the warm pressure of lips against his mouth, and the solid weight of a body in his arms, Sirius is happy._  

_He is happy, and he hopes Remus is, too._

 

 

 **c. 1981.**  

They throw him in a cell with Lucius Malfoy.

It’s some sort of sick fucking joke, Sirius thinks, because he’s innocent, he is, and he’s just lost everything— _everyone_ —he’s ever given half a shit about, and they throw him in a cell with Lucius fucking Malfoy.

He hits the ground with a solid thud, but the pained groan catches in the back of his throat. He swallows it down, keeps it to himself. There is no way he will let them hear it, not when Lucius is watching him, his mouth tilted in a faint smirk. Not when he looks unworried, not when he still holds himself with pride; even now, even when cuffed, even when sporting Azkaban’s robes. Not when he is still smug, still composed; never mind that he’s sitting chained in a holding cell, never mind that he’s facing the prospect of life in prison, never mind that he’s been presented with the threat of the Dementor’s Kiss.

But it’s not a real threat, is it? Sirius can see it—the certainty that he will walk away a free man. That all of this is a mere inconvenience that will pass. That it is something he will be able to laugh about later. That he will be able to go home while Sirius is forced to stay here, that he will be able to see his wife and child while Sirius is shipped off to Azkaban, that he will be able to continue on with his life while Sirius is left to rot.

Some sick fucking joke, indeed.

Their cell is locked, the Auror’s footsteps fading as she walks away, and Sirius struggles until he’s sat on the floor, his back pressed to the wall and the bottoms of his thighs pressed to stone, the coolness of it seeping through fabric, through skin.

His shoulder catches on the edge of the seat he’s meant to sit on, and Sirius clenches his teeth, the act done to quiet the pained hitch of breath that threatens to escape. His body still aches with the aftermath of what they’d done to him, his mouth still stings with the taste of blood—it sits on the back of his tongue, poignant and poisonous, like a bad aftertaste that never wants to leave.

A lesson, is what they’d called it. _Something to shut you up._

Sirius hadn’t stood a chance.

“I suppose the floor is meant for dogs,” Lucius comments, sparing a glance to the vacant seat, and Sirius thinks that it’s lucky, really, that Malfoy is on the other side of the cell, and that his hands are cuffed, and that there are Aurors down the corridor, and that his body hurts too much to move, because his veins pulse with an incandescent rage, because his body thrums with the desire to lash out and take back something of what they’ve taken from him, because he’s certain he could wrap his hands around Malfoy’s throat and squeeze until the bastard drops dead, until his gasps and chokes and wheezes fade to nothing.

He doesn’t, though. There is a voice in the back of his head, a voice that sounds painfully like Remus, that tells him it’s not worth it. That reminds him of where he is, of what will happen if he does.

He tilts his head back, his skull hitting the wall with a soft thud, and lets his eyes fall shut.

Screaming, as he’d learnt, will get him nowhere. For now, he thinks he’ll rest.

 

 

 **c. 1981.**  

_“Where have you been?”_

_Remus halts, his hand lingering on the door handle as he looks at Sirius, as he takes in the mess of their apartment—the empty bottles, the cigarette ash that taints the pale fabric of Remus’ favourite armchair. Sirius’ words aren’t a question and they both know it. They’re an accusation, they’re every argument they’ve had in the past six month jammed into a four word inquiry, they’re the two weeks Sirius spent sleeping on James’ couch and the one month Remus spent away, the one month they’d gone without so much as looking at each other._

_Away. He never told Sirius where. Perhaps that’s part of the problem._

_“Mission.”_

_Mission. Said like it’s nothing, said like it’s enough. Sirius is so tired of hearing the word, is so tired of it being a part of his life. His mouth twists to a bitter grin, a spiteful smile._

_Mission. He remembers when there used to be some sort of joy in the word, some sort of twisted excitement. Remembers when they were younger, when they were naïve. Remembers when they were willing to jump headfirst into anything that was thrown at them, when that was the joy of youth—to challenge corruption, to fight back, to make something of themselves._

_Sirius stands, and the carpet sinks beneath his boots, and Remus finally lets the door shut behind him, and Sirius can see it, the apprehension. It looks an awful lot like fear._

_He remembers, too, when this didn’t happen. When the aftermath wasn’t filled with explosive arguments and long hours spent in tense silences. Remembers when they could still trust each other, when time apart was an exciting thing because it preceded a reunion, because that reunion used to be soft touches and sweet kisses and whispered promises and anything other than this—this fury, this frustration, this distrust. This fiery brand of passion that stems from the pit of his gut and courses through his veins like adrenaline._

_Sirius can’t say when their dynamic started to change. He just knows it did._

 

 

 **c. 1981.**  

Pale blue, bordering on grey, surrounded by dark blonde eyelashes, the delicate hairs painted black. The irises shine slightly in the glow of the corridor’s torches, where the flames dance in their spot near the ceiling, the reds and yellows of their embers the only colour in the otherwise banal passageway. Their luminosity casts the face in shadows, helps cover up just how tired the figure is, helps stress lines and dark circles soften to flawless looking skin. 

Narcissa’s eyes are a lot like his own, Sirius thinks.

A different shape, perhaps. More Rosier than Black—but then, she always had been. The odd one out, they’d used to joke, and she’d spent most of their joint childhood in icy solitude because of it.

She looks at him now, as the Auror unchains her husband, and Sirius wonders if she knows. He catches her eye and holds it, forces her to look at him. If she does know, Sirius hopes she feels guilt. Hopes that when she returns home and puts the child on her hip to bed, she’ll think of another one—will think of Harry, all alone, without any of the family who love him. Will think of how she could have stopped it, of how she could have _done_ something.

If she does know, Sirius hopes her maternal instinct eats her alive.

Narcissa turns away first, and it’s an odd sort of victory, Sirius thinks. He’s made her uncomfortable, he can tell—can see it in the rigid stance, in the tight pull of her lip, in the way she adjusts her baby, her hand brushing over his hair, as if to protect him from Sirius. In the way she turns back to Lucius and holds out a hand, beckoning. Like she’s in a hurry to leave.

He watches with obvious hatred as Lucius’ hand links with hers, as the child reaches for his father, as the lot of them are free to go home and _live_.

Lucius looks back at him when he walks away, his mouth upturned in a barely repressed grin, eyes glittering with a sadistic sort of mirth. He’s smug as he leaves the cell, his stride as haughty as it’s ever been, and Sirius is forced to watch, is forced to listen as the footsteps fade—barely audible over the clank of the cell door, over the jingle of keys.

He feels an uncontrollable laugh bubble in his chest, feels his body vibrate with the rumble. It is nothing like the deranged cackle from days past—rather, it comes out low and bitter and tastes like acid on his tongue. It is quiet, almost. Quiet and guttural, it rips out from the back of his throat and sounds far too much like the disappearance of his last shred of hope.

Even once the bodies are gone, Sirius continues to laugh. If he doesn’t, he’s sure he’ll cry.

 

 

**c. 1975.**

_“Bend down.”_

_The touch to his neck is warm, the wool soft. Remus wraps the scarf around him twice, and Sirius smiles—cheeky, almost._

_“Keep warm, yeah?_

_Sirius nods, dips his head to inhale the scent. Bit like a crackling fire, he thinks. Like tea and vanilla and sandalwood. Chocolate, too—as if crumbs had fallen and melted in the fabric._

_“Keeping this,” he says, eyes meeting Remus’ over the bright red material._

_“I’m taking yours, then,” says Remus, and Sirius’ smile grows to a grin._

_“Deal.”_

_It’s worth it, he thinks, months later, during the summer, when his father’s screaming voice can still be heard, even through the locked bedroom door, even through the blanket pulled up around his head. When the only thing there to catch his tears is soft fabric coloured bright red, bright gold. When the only comfort is that smell—is that reminder; of what’s waiting for him, of people who love him._

_More than worth it, Sirius thinks._

 

 

**c. 1974.**

_The door to their dorm shuts with a bang, and Sirius is left by himself, standing in the hall like an idiot, his eyes fixed on where Remus had just been. He’s certain the surprise is still written clearly on his face, certain that anyone who walks past will easily see the wet glint to his eyes._

_Pathetic, they will think. Just like he does._

_“You’re a right fucking prat,” James had told him, barely ten minutes ago. His shoulder had been pressed against the dorm door, as if to shield Remus from Sirius, as if to block him from view. “He doesn’t want to see you.”_

_Just stay away, James had said, and—well. Obviously he hadn’t. Couldn’t. He’s never been any good at that, staying away. Holding back._

_And what fucking good did it do him._

_As he turns and makes his way back to the Common Room—his hands clutching the blanket that’s just been thrown at him, his arms holding the pillow against his chest, like a small child would hold a toy for comfort—Sirius wishes he’d listened._

 

 

 **c. 1981.**  

Dismal, despondent, dreary—Azkaban is everything they said it would be.

It’s cold, more than what he’d expected. The chill seeps into his skin instantly, right down to the bone, to blood. It makes him shiver, makes him feel like the life is being sucked out of him, like anything worth living for is slipping right through his fingers—like sand, only there’s nothing there to catch it.

Dementors. Despicable creatures. Sirius used to joke that his mother was one.

They glide around his cell, feed off the fresh meet. Sirius shifts, uncomfortable, and prepares himself for a sleepless night.

It is the first of many.

 

 

**c. 1975.**

The sun has started to set by the time he makes it to James’ street, the orange skyline almost violently bright compared to the splatters of pale pink, to the dark, blue-tinged grey that creeps across the horizon. Sirius pulls his leather jacket closer around him and hurries on, passes each house with a disinterested glance. His hand is shoved in his pocket, his fingers buried in the soft wool of a familiar scarf—a futile attempt at comfort.

When he knocks, it’s James who answers the door.

Sirius can see it, the moment the ball drops. Realisation floods his face and his eyes shine with something that is far too close to pity, and Sirius wishes they wouldn’t, wishes he wouldn’t. Wishes they could all just forget he was ever a Black at all.

“They didn’t?”

Sirius shakes his head, because they hadn’t, but he knows they will. He just hadn’t been able to take it, anymore. One more second spent _there_ , spent trapped under his parents’ control—he’s sure he’d have lost it. 

“I.” He stops, sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging, like the pain might just clear his head. “I have nowhere else to go.”

It’s not entirely true. There’s Remus—there’s always Remus—but. He’s too far away, Sirius had thought. Too far away, and Sirius is pretty sure that Lyall never liked him much, anyway. Hope, too. Pretty sure it’s because of his last name.

Not that that matters much anymore, he thinks.

“Come on,” James says, stepping back and letting him through, and there’s not much else to it.

James announces that Sirius is going to be staying, and Mr. and Mrs. Potter don’t question it. Fleamont claps him on the shoulder as Euphemia summons another dinner plate, and that’s that. He’s welcomed into the home with genuine smiles and an air of understanding.

Like family, Sirius thinks.

But not like _family._

 

 

**c. 1995.**

_His eyes are open and unblinking, his body as still as anything. He doesn’t move—hasn’t moved, not for hours. He’s been staring at the wall, his head tilted upward, his gaze fixed on the faintest of cracks. Regulus, when he was eight. A miniature bludger thrown too hard._

_Sirius had ducked just in time, only he’d ended up wishing he hadn’t. They’d both been blamed for it._

_“Do you want dinner?”_

_It’s Remus’ voice, coming from the corner of the room. It’s soft, softer than usual. Hesitant, tentative. He does this a lot, lately._

_Sirius can’t fault him for it, even when he wants to._

_He turns slowly, draws his gaze from the wall to Remus, to the tired looking body, draped in gentle shades of brown, in layers and layers of fabric. He was always cold, Remus. Even in the summer._

_He stares back, and Sirius can see it. The concern. Remus thinks he’s lost in a present that’s ceased to exist, thinks it’s only made worse by being back here—the childhood home, the monument of trauma._

_Sirius can’t honestly say if he’s wrong or not._

_He never got to mourn, after all. Never got to get over anything. It was one hit after the other, with barely enough room to comprehend what the hell was happening, and then it was—_

_Sirius blinks suddenly, tries to rid himself of the thought of Azkaban. He doesn’t want to think about it, about those first few months. Grimmauld Place, as bad as it is, is a considerable improvement._

_“No,” he answers finally, too delayed for it to be considered normal. There’s a twinge of desperation in the look Remus gives him—something like sorrow, or helplessness, or maybe even nostalgia—but Sirius turns back to the wall before he can linger._

_It’s easier, like this. Easier to keep his misery to himself._

 

 

**c. 1982.**

The worst thing about Azkaban, Sirius decides, are the intrusive thoughts. Are the memories that don’t leave, the ones that play on a loop inside your head, over, and over, and over, until they’re all you know, all you can think of, all you can remember.

The second, Sirius thinks, is the yelling, the shouting, the reminder of madness. Is the fact that, for the first three months, Bellatrix had been in a cell close enough that Sirius could hear her. Is that she seemed to _know_ he didn’t belong there, that she seemed to delight in making it worse for him—in taunting him, in reminding him of everything he’d lost, in _praising_ him for his help.

Sirius had thought he’d kill her, had used to fantasise about sneaking his way into her cell and strangling the life out of her. Anything, really, to shut her up, to make her stop. To quiet the sound of mocking praise, mocking laughter, mocking applause.

But he couldn’t, and so he’d had to live with it, had to work through it, had to put up with it until it drove him insane, until his screaming got him moved, until he’d been reminded of what everyone used to say. 

_Azkaban. Enough to make a man mad._

 

 

**c. 1994.**

_It’s too dangerous for Sirius to be out, for him to be near Remus. If he gets caught, if either of them get caught—Sirius is no optimist, not anymore. He knows exactly what will happen, knows how quick the Ministry will jump at the chance to persecute a werewolf, a half-breed._

_Not even his dog form is safe, but—twelve years. It’s a long time to wait to see the person you love._

_Padfoot keens quietly at the touch of warm water, at the nearly forgotten sensation of it being poured through his fur. Remus shushes him, hiding a smile as he works soap through Padfoot’s fur in gentle, circular motions. It will take more than this, Sirius knows, for them to fix the matted locks, but it’s a start._

_“You always loved having your hair washed,” Remus whispers, adding more pressure to the spot beneath Padfoot’s ear, and Sirius leans into the touch, enjoys the familiarity of it, the way it forces Remus’ smile to a grin. “I suppose things don’t change.”_

_He washes away the dirt that’s gathered, the mess that’s tangled in the black fur, and then Sirius sees the smile falter, sees it fade to nothing._

_“Some things, at least,” Remus amends, his gaze dropping from Padfoot’s snout to the array of soaps that litter the small bathroom floor, and Sirius can see the way happiness is replaced by sorrow, again—like its Remus’ new default._

_He can’t have that._

_It’s with a practiced move that he jumps up, that he puts his front paws on Remus’ shoulders and topples them over, that he licks across Remus cheek in a gesture that had never failed to make him laugh. They end up a mess on the floor, their limbs linked in what could almost be a hug. Padfoot’s fur is dripping water all over Remus’ clothes, all over his bathroom. Is making the entire place smell like wet dog, just as their first apartment had far, far too often._

_“Padfoot!” Remus groans, but he’s smiling again, laughing, almost—his eyes sparkling like they used to, all those years ago. His hand reaches to scratch behind Padfoot’s ear again, and Sirius wags his tail, smiles as much as the dog allows him to._

_This, he thinks. This is much better._

 

 

 **c. 1978.**  

_There is a moment, late in the evening, when the clock sits between two and three am, when no one knows if it should be called night or morning. A moment that holds a certain sort of surrealism. A moment that makes Sirius feel as if he doesn’t exist at all, as if he’s started to blur. To blend._

_“It’s when the Veil is thinnest,” Remus had told him once, sometime in their fourth year. He’d been smiling at him over the breakfast table, a drop of golden syrup clinging to the corner of his mouth._

_“What bloody veil?” Sirius had asked. He’d just assumed it was one of those things—one of those dull areas Remus had a lot of useless knowledge on, one of the weird topics he’d pull out at parties, something to use when all else failed—but then he’d started to explain._

_“Where the worlds meet,” he’d said. “Life and death—When you’re closest to the Spiritual Realm.”_

_He’d never claimed to actually believe it, but Sirius had started to. He’d read up on it, had thought of it every other night, when he sat awake in bed, his eyes fixed on his clock as it ticked from two to three to four._

_It’s in one of these moments that he says it for the first time._

_He’s half asleep. Remus is, too, tucked tightly in the nook of his arm. Sirius’ face is buried in soft hair, his senses filled with a smell that is entirely Remus, a smell that is now so familiar, a smell that prompts a feeling of home, of safe, of love._  

_He feels it, now, lying under the weight of Remus’ body, under the thrum of a steady heartbeat and the vibration of shallow breath._

_James had asked, once, what it felt like. Sirius had said it was like floating, only he’s not sure how true that is. It’s more inexplicable, he thinks. More surreal. Like standing between two entities, two energies, two worlds._

_Like spirituality, he thinks—or as close to understanding the word as he’ll ever get._

_Now, Remus shifts against him, his head lifting a little. He’s awake, just like Sirius is—barely, bordering on the edge of unconsciousness._  

_It would easy, Sirius thinks, to tilt his head and press a kiss, to brush his lips against Remus’ cheek. And then he remembers that he is allowed to, and so he does._

_Remus makes a humming sound—small, soft, content—and Sirius’ heart swells inside his chest. He can’t contain himself, can’t stop the words._

_More than that, he doesn’t want to._

_“Love you,” he mumbles, lips pressing to the nearest span of skin. He feels Remus smile, can feel it against the bare skin of his chest, can feel the warmth of his breath as his mouth opens momentarily._

_“Love you, too,” Remus answers, his speech just as slurred as Sirius’, and Sirius’ chest burns all over again, his heart so full he’s sure it’ll explode._

_He’d read, once, about the magic in these openings—about theories of eternities and ever afters, about thoughts and feelings living on in spirits—and if it is real, Sirius thinks, if any of it carries any ounce of truth, he hopes it’s this moment that lives on forever._

 

 

 

 **c. 1985.**  

His fur is matted, now. Neglected. Sirius tries to fix what he can, but it’s a futile effort that only leaves him worse off than when he started.

Padfoot can help, sometimes. Just enough to make it bearable, but not enough to make it easy. And sometimes—sometimes he just makes it worse. Sometimes he just throws Sirius back in the past, makes him remember why he did it, makes him remember Remus’ smile, the way he’d laughed, delighted, disbelief written all over him, like he still couldn’t quite understand _why_ they would do that for him. Makes him remember the way crinkles had formed around the corners of his eyes, the way his teeth had been on display, the way the grin had stuck around for days.

And that—that’s dangerous. That attracts the Dementors, calls them to him. That just leaves him a mess, leaves him wondering what Remus is doing now, if he’s okay, if he’s happy, if he’s moved on.

_If he will still love me after this._

It’s something he tries not to think about. Something he tries to will away, to push behind something else, but it doesn’t work, never works, never lets him rest.

_Like an intrusive thought._

He is not the man he was before Azkaban. Sirius knows that, he knows he’s changed—irrecoverably, irreversibly—and he imagines that Remus has, too. They both lost the same things. In different ways, maybe, but they still grieved the same people, still had their lives ripped up from under them. There is no going back after that, Sirius thinks. Not for him, not for Remus—and, well.

You can never forget enough to start anew, Sirius thinks. Memories—they stick with you, eat at you. Tear you to shreds. Remus won’t forget everything that had happened in their last year together, Sirius thinks, won’t forget what was said in the heat of an argument. Won’t forget accusations, or the implications of accusations. Won’t forget how Sirius had _treated_ him—like the one to watch, like the traitor, like everyone else always did and like Sirius had always promised he never would.

Even if he does manage to prove his innocence, it is a happy chance if they manage to move past that, if they manage to continue on, if they continue to love each other.

And, happy chances—they don’t exist in Azkaban.

 

 

**c. 1975.**

_“Here.”_

_The voice is so unexpected that Sirius almost gets whiplash. He stares at Remus, at the blank look on his face, at his tired eyes, half hidden by strands of soft brown hair, at the book he’s got in his hand, the cover worn and labelled with something to do with charms._

_“James said you needed it,” Remus says, as if it’s a good enough explanation, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if he hasn’t bloody been ignoring Sirius for four fucking months now._

_Sirius supposes it is an explanation, in an odd, Remus-y sort of way._

_He reaches out, takes hold of the offered item, and there’s an awkward moment where their hands touch, a moment that seems to drag on, a moment where he can feel the warmth of Remus’ skin against his, where he can feel the brush of a knuckle against his index finger. A moment where he almost wants to drop the book and take hold of Remus’ hand instead._

_He doesn’t. That’d be weird, he thinks. Probably._

_“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice gentle, like speaking too loudly might shatter this newfound peace, like it might just make Remus come to his senses, like it might just make him walk away again._  

_Remus smiles—a tiny curl of his lip, so quick anyone else would miss it—and Sirius supposes that this is what forgiveness looks like._

 

 

 

**c. 1993.**

Leaves crinkle beneath his paws, an array of dead plants littering his walkway, their faded colours and broken figures more inconvenient than they are beautiful. Sirius tries hard not to step on them, not to crunch them, not to draw attention to himself. He can’t afford to be recognised, and. Well. Remus would recognise him, Sirius thinks.

At least, he hopes he would.

Hogwarts hasn’t changed much in the years he’s been away, and Sirius can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse, can’t tell if it’s a _good_ thing that he can watch Remus walk the grounds, hidden behind bush, hidden inside the Forest, and remember when there were four of them, when his hand used to hold Remus’, when an arm would be slung over James’ shoulders. When they were young and stupid, with hardly any care in the world.

Looking at Remus—seeing the small furrow of his brow, the slight downturn of his mouth, the way his body is hunched—Sirius imagines that Remus is thinking the same. Imagines that they both come to the same conclusion.

More of a curse, than a blessing. More bad, than good.

 

 

**c. 1995.**

_Lie low at Lupin’s, Dumbledore had said._

_Sirius is pretty sure he hadn’t meant this._

_It was inevitable, he supposes. He and Remus—they always did end up like this. Wrapped around each other, pressed together, merged as one. It’s only natural that it happens again now._  

_Rediscovering a body you had once known like the back of your own hand is a surreal experience, Sirius thinks. Exciting, yes, exhilarating, yes, but still new, still different, still unusual._

_Remus is different, and yet familiar, and yet still different. He is rougher in places that used to be soft, is softer in places that used to be bony. His body bends differently, reacts differently. He is more experienced, perhaps. More so than Sirius now, at least._

_He wonders if Remus feels the same, if he’s thinking the same thing, if he’s cataloging every apparent change to Sirius’ body the same way Sirius is his. Probably, he thinks. Most likely._  

_Lips trail over his chest, up his neck, across his jaw. When they finally reach his mouth, they’re desperate. Desperate, and lovely, and everything he hadn’t dared to wish for for twelve years. And this, Sirius thinks, this—it hasn’t changed much. Remus’ kisses are the same as they’ve ever been, are the same sensual build, the same mastered touch. They can pull him apart just as they had, back then, can set his body alight, can erode him back to raw desire, to pure need, to urgent longing._

_Funny, Sirius thinks, how that hasn’t changed._

_He supposes it never will._

 

 

 **c. 1995.**  

“Why does _he_ get to help when I’m his bloody g—”

“Sirius,” says Dumbledore, his voice infuriatingly calm, his hand held up between the middle of them, as if to quiet him. “These are valuable lessons only Severus is equipped to teach. Shall an opportunity arise where you—”

“Oh, _bullshit,”_ Sirius mutters, and he doesn’t care that others are watching, are judging. Doesn’t care if his behaviour is considered _rude._ He is just so tired of waiting, of sitting around for an _opportunity_ , of being seen as little more than a host, than someone to house them, to give them a roof over their heads.

He is valuable, he is. He can help Harry, can be there for him, can take on the role that is _his_ , not theirs, not anyone else’s. The role that he’d meant to have, all these years. That one that had been deprived from the both of them.

He doesn’t care if the door slams when he leaves, doesn’t care if they think it _dramatic,_ or childish. If they want to treat him like he is nothing, Sirius thinks, then they will have to deal with it.

  

 

 **c. 1995.**  

_Snow gathers along the windowsill, the icy white a stark contrast to the dark paint, to the dusty wood, to the dreary and banal grey outside. Sirius watches, mesmerised almost, at how it builds, at how a light sheen has grown to a compacted pile—it’s smooth surface begging to be ruined, to be touched, to be defiled._

_He almost wants to open the window, to stick his hand outside and crush the ice beneath his fingers. To hold it until his hands go numb, until the snow melts in his palm and all there’s left is a slippery touch and the memory of what was._  

_He doesn’t. So much of his life had been spent in the cold, he much prefers the crackling fire to the feel of snow beneath his fingertips._

_A door opens to the left of him, and Sirius doesn’t have to turn to see who it is. He recognises the way the weight shifts, the way the person steps lightly. The same, still, as when they were young._

_“Molly says Harry will be here later,” Remus says, and Sirius wonders what else she said as Remus takes the seat next to him, as the warmth of the fire is doubled with the warmth of Remus’ body. Wonders if she’d asked Remus to talk to him, to tell him to back off, quiet down, don’t be so, so, so._

_As if he isn’t Harry’s godfather. As if he doesn’t have the right._  

_“Mm.”_

_A hand trails down his arm, over his jacket, a warm palm eventually settling on his own—familiar, now. He’d had to relearn it, had had to relearn most of Remus, but it is all still as beautiful as it was, back then. Still as beautiful as it’s ever been._

_Fingers link with his, fit perfectly between his own. They squeeze—gentle, but enough for Sirius to feel it, and he supposes that Remus knows, that he understands, that the reason he hasn’t said anything about his moping, as the others had called it, is because some part of him gets it._

_It wouldn’t surprise Sirius. He always had seemed to simply get it._

_“It’ll be nice,” Remus continues, his chin settling on Sirius’ shoulder, his nose brushing the long curls out of the way, his breath ghosting across the bare skin of Sirius’ neck, and Sirius supposes he’s right. That it will be, maybe._

_They can hope, at least._

 

 

 **c. 1979.**  

“Reckon you’re next,” says James, mouth upturned in a grin. The dress robes fit him well, Sirius thinks. The black had definitely been the better choice.

“What,” he says. “Me and Moony?”

“Mm.” James ruffles a hand through his hair, a futile effort to flatten the mess, and turns away from the mirror to look at him. “You don’t want to?”

“Dunno.” He’d never thought about it, not seriously, at least. But, well. James did seem happy. Lily, too. He supposes, maybe, that it could happen. “You really think?”

“Yeah.” He grins, again, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “You’d be the one in a dress, of course.”

“Oi. I’d look good in white.”

“Don’t doubt it,” James tells him, and then he gets serious again, his hand flattening over his robe. “You should ask him.”

Sirius considers it—him and Remus, a happily ever after. An eternity together. A promise of forever.

It’s not a bad thought.

“Yeah,” he says, slowly. “Maybe.”

 

 

**c. 1996.**

_“Sirius!”_

_The shout of his name is panicked, worried, desperate. Sirius is out of his seat before Remus even appears at the door, his hand curling around his wand, his body preparing itself for a fight._

_“Harry—Ministry—” the words are jumbled in their urgency, but Sirius catches the Dark Lord’s name, and he knows. Knows something bad is happening._

_Remus’ hand takes hold of his wrist, pulls him along to where the others are, to where they’re preparing, and their eyes link for a second, and Sirius catches that, too. The_ something bad might happen, _the_ we could die tonight, _the_ remember that I love you.

_Sirius stops him just outside of the main room, slips his hand up to link with Remus’, dips his head to kiss him—briefly, tenderly, for what might just be the last time._

_“I—” he starts, but Remus is already nodding, is already cutting him off._

_“I know,” he says, and there is a faint curl to his lip, faint enough no one else would recognise it as a smile. “Me too.”_

_Sirius nods back, dips down to kiss him again, and then their names are being called, and the moment is cut short by the call of duty, and there’s no time to linger, to bask in it, to celebrate their love like they used to._

_But even when they Apparate into the heat of a battle, Remus’ words still sit at the back of his mind._

 

 

**c. 1998.**

There is the battle, and then a blinding flash of green, so quick no one saw it coming, and then— 

Nothing. 

Or, perhaps not nothing. Perhaps a calm—yes, a calm. A calm so surreal it feels like nothing, a calm he has never experienced, a calm he’d never thought possible. An incredible type of peace, a breathtaking serenity, a tranquility that sinks into his being, a tranquillity that blossoms throughout his chest, his heart, a tranquillity that feels so forceful, so powerful it almost brings him to tears.

It is so different, Remus thinks, so different to the last few years, so different to most of his life. It is everything he has wished for, everything he had thought of—late, late at night, where he wouldn’t be interrupted, where no one could see him, where it was safe to play the fool, safe to hope, safe to think that one day, one day they might manage it, one day they might win, one day they might be offered the opportunity to simply _exist._  

And then, through the haze of calm, he hears his name.

He hears his name, and it is Sirius who speaks, Sirius who stands in front of him, Sirius whose hand takes hold of his, Sirius whose palm is warm and calloused and beautifully familiar, Sirius who tightens the grip—too tight, _too tight_ —Sirius who smiles like he will never let go, Sirius who _smiles_ , who is happy, who is just as beautiful as the day he died, as the day they met, as the day Remus fell in love. Sirius who says—

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

And that is all it takes.

Remus allows himself to be pulled forward, allows himself to fall into Sirius, to melt against him, allows Sirius to lead him onward, to take him wherever he wants to go, and it is easy, it is beautiful, it is everything he’d hoped they could have and more.

Remus doesn’t care when the blinding white starts to fade, when the world as he knows it morphs to something else entirely. He can’t care, not when they are with each other again, not when Sirius is looking at him like _that_ , not when his eyes shine just as bright as his star, not when they’re filled with the promise of secrets and answers and an unknown Remus aches to discover. Not when that promise looks an awful lot like eternity.

Not when they are _together—_ together as they always were, and together as they will always be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! All comments, kudos, and kind words are very much appreciated ♥️
> 
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